


A Challenger is Near

by Ihsan997



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Beating, Begging, Brutal Murder, Brutality, Duelling, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Religious Fanaticism, Villains, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 05:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17543171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihsan997/pseuds/Ihsan997
Summary: So rarely am I impressed by any action or achievement on the part of mortals. Every so often, though, I discover a few who provide surprises violent enough to pique my interest.





	A Challenger is Near

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own the Elder Scrolls or its associated lore.
> 
> Although the Shrine to Lord Dagon is found in a part of Skyrim currently inaccessible in the online game, I’m assuming the place still exists.

I sense them coming long before I know who they are.

Long before I deposit enough of my consciousness into Mundus to perceive shape and movement, I can sense their intention. The sympathetic vibrations created by their motivation catches my attention and pulls my mind away from my previous projects. The bread riots in High Rock, the splitting of the miner’s union in Elsweyr, the breakdowns in social order I instigated along three major trading posts in the continent - all of them are forgotten when I notice that I’ve been noticed. Perhaps I’d been too taxed by multitasking across such great distances on another plane, and thus my abrupt change in focus almost feels accidental. It’s not unexpected, then, that I’m aware of their approach prior to even opening sense perception in the Pale that morning.

Yes...I sense them coming before I even know who they are.

My consciousness transfers to the area known as Skyrim, of all places, a region full of men nearly as ignorant as the cave trolls who cohabitate with them. Ah, now I remember - my shrine. That’s why they approach. Seven mortals of varying attunement with the world of the unseen, all of them prepared for conflict at the site of my hallowed ground. Considering all the other tasks I’ve set for myself, I could view this as a welcome distraction or an unwanted interruption. Maybe a little of both.

Resigned to letting my pet projects play themselves out, I detach my sensory experience to hover over the magnificent statue erected in my name. Shape and motion reach me once again, and I scan the physical layout of the area around my shrine. I ignore the mundane aspects of Nirn’s landscape to hone in on the group of seven hikers who dare to seek my shrine. Typical mortals in my eyes, they don’t seem particularly outstanding as a challenge. Most of them carry weapons expected of mortals on Nirn. Their composition is drawn from Skyrim, Morrowind, and Blackmarsh...the Ebonheart Pact, I think. Though that may no longer be the case; mortals switch sides so often that it’s hard to keep up with their fragile political institutions.

They’ve had to camp for a few nights on their way to my shrine. Good. They’ll be tested by their own delicate metabolisms as well as my minions. This will either be a slaughter or a bore.

The lot of them creep up to the cliffside in front of my carved visage, glancing around uneasily. They’re hired help, as I can quickly discern. With the exception of a few of them, I can probe their minds to a shallow extent without them experiencing any phenomena associated with my presence. None of them know each other particularly well, the sellswords. Mortals don’t fight hard enough unless they’re deluded enough to truly believe in their lowly causes; I’m bored already.

Two of them can latently detect my presence. One of them, a sorceress from House Hlaalu, specializes in conjuration and little else; I poke her with my mind to watch her feelings of disconcerted anxiety tingle on and off. The other, one of the Blackmarsh belly-crawlers with his tail protected by a chainmail sock, seems oddly aware of my observations. He seems aware of more than he should be.  
When a handful of the travelers begin to lay down their supplies, unload their pack animals, and ready their weapons, my patience grows thin. If they can only provide me entertainment, then I won’t be forced to wait.

To the shrieks of the travelers and their animals alike, I dispatch the executors of my comedic performance for the week. A contingent of Dremora had long ago been conjured from Oblivion by long-dead cultists of mine within the shrine’s inner sanctum, and the voices of the mortal travelers outside spurs a wave of my daedric soldiers to pour out into the open in my shrine’s defense. Metal conjured from my plane gleams in the morning light as my minions hit the ground running and charge; even the Dremora mage resident within the sanctum wastes no time in his assault, assisting the others while they meet these foolish mortals head on.

Hmm...this is more interesting than I’d expected. Two of the mortals, both Nord laborers, squeal and run while dropping supplies. The mere sight of capable kynreeves sends them into a panic, and one of them is impaled and killed with an icicle launched by my mage. The easy task ends with that laborer and the death of another hired Nord fighter, however, as my minions are quickly put off balance and surrounded by the surviving intruders. One of those damn mortal warriors, the one with a tail, charges straight at my minions and knocks a few of them over. His people are smaller than my soldiers, yet he moves with such violence that my churls are knocked down before they even realize what’s happening. I’ll have to remember to kill them and re-summon them a few hundred times later as encouragement for better performance in the future because they’re dispatched without dignity by the Nord travelers soon after the Argonian knocks them down.

How disappointing. In seconds, the mortals outmaneuver ten of my minions and slay them without hesitation. Even my mage is dispatched by the Argonian, more serpentine in appearance than lizardlike, as every destruction spell splashes against the reptile’s high magic resistance with negligible damage. The Dremora mage’s robes flap around as the minion is cut into pieces before even hitting the ground, punctuating a pitiful display which directs more of my anger on my shrine defenders than on the interlopers.

With my shrine now undefended, I examine the features of these intruders. Five of them remain, all recovering and inspecting my shrine as I prepare to hound them with whatever minions I can insert into Mundus using the useful idiots among my worshipers. This is a grudge the indulgence of which could occupy my attention for years to come.

Or maybe not quite. There may yet be more to this than meets the eye. Still weeping like the pathetic knave he is, the surviving laborer leaves the corpse of his fellow to drag a bag from their mounted animals toward my altar. Quickly hurrying away, he leaves the Dunmer sorceress to yank open the writhing fabric to reveal not provisions, but another robed mortal. A mortal bound against his will, wearing a talisman tainted with the essence of Boethiah.

This actually seems interesting.


End file.
